


homesick at space camp

by alessandriana



Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Disco, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Recovery, SCIENCE!, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 17:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5464667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alessandriana/pseuds/alessandriana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the producers of The Watney Report had contacted her about doing a final wrap-up show on the one-year anniversary of the Ares 3 mission's return, Annie'd nearly thrown herself off a bridge. She'd thought she was done with this shit.</p><p>[Or, seven times they lied to the press.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Annie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [florahart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/gifts).



> ...This kind of got away from me...
> 
> Thanks to egelantier and M for the beta!!
> 
> [Potential trigger warnings in the end notes.]

Annie stopped them all with a raised hand one last time before they walked onto the soundstage. "Okay, boys and girls, huddle up." 

The Ares 3 crew stared back at her, expressions ranging from bored (Lewis), to disinterested (Johanssen), to slightly manic (Mark). They made no move to actually huddle. Annie sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just listen up. You all remember the coaching I gave you, right?" 

"Yes!" Mindy said brightly. Annie regarded her with favor. The only person being interviewed today not part of the crew itself-- most of NASA administration had gone over the previous couple of days, but Mindy had had a scheduling conflict-- she was also the only person who actually seemed excited to be there. Then again, she wasn't going to be put through half the wringer the other five were about to go through. 

When the producers of The Watney Report had contacted her about doing a final wrap-up show on the one-year anniversary of the Ares 3 mission's return, Annie'd nearly thrown herself off a bridge. She'd thought she was _done_ with this shit. Watney was back home, and her job had gone back to normal. Instead of hourly press conferences, she was back to doing maybe one or two a week, announcing the discovery of new evidence of gravitational radiation, or what-fucking-ever. She'd turned down a dozen job offers from people impressed by the way she'd handled the Watney shit, because the last thing she wanted right now was more stress. NASA was usually really boring to work for, and that was the way she liked it. 

She chose to interpret the blank looks of the rest of the crew as agreement. Glancing around, she checked one last time to make sure they were alone, then said, "Okay, a few quick reminders of the most important stuff. Lewis: don't talk about the you-know-what. If they bring it up-- and they might, they have the mission control logs-- deflect." Lewis nodded, and Annie was satisfied. Lewis had balls of steel and wouldn’t be rattled by some interviewer.

"Johanssen, Beck, don't talk about the other you-know-what. If they bring it up, lie. Martinez, Vogel..." she regarded them suspiciously. "I don't know if there's anything you two need to hide, but if there is, you'd damn well better do a good job at it. Got it?" They nodded. She moved onto her problem child. "And Mark, please, for the love of Christ, don't--"

"--Say 'fuck' on national television, yeah, I know." Mark grinned at her. "I think it's kind of too late for that though, don't you? My logs have been splashed over the media ten ways to Sunday. That ship has sailed." He proceeded to make a little sailing motion with his hand, complete with sound effects. Annie sighed. Why anyone had thought putting him in front of cameras was a good idea, she had no idea. He was totally going to ruin the perception that astronauts were cool and collected. 

She ignored the fact that she'd originally chosen him to be the media relations person for Ares 3. Clearly she'd been drinking at work that day.

"Jesus Christ. Okay. Just try not to say fuck too often then. Once per hour of footage, maybe. Can you manage that?" 

"For you, I'll try." He put his hand on his heart. 

" _Thank_ you. Mindy..." Annie looked her over. Mindy was practically bouncing in place. Annie wasn’t worried, she didn’t know any real secrets. "Just... be yourself, you’ll be fine." 

The soundstage door opened and an assistant poked her head out. "Ready to go?" she chirped. 

Annie looked over her astronauts and sighed. Well, she'd given them all the coaching she could. Hopefully none of them would fuck up too badly. 

"Ready," she answered.


	2. Mark

“—actually, I’m all in favor of banning potatoes. And disco. Man. Fuck disco. It sucks. If I ever get re-elected King of Mars—and it would have to be in absentia, because I’m never going back to that hellhole—I’d decree that anyone who plays disco on Mars will be summarily executed.”

“Well. Okay then.” Blinking a little, the interviewer glanced down at her notes. "On another topic… You've been frequently commended for your ability to stay positive in the face of incredible hardship. It's hard to believe you could stay that positive all the time, however. Did you ever have any dark moments? Moments where you were convinced you weren't going to get off Mars?"

Mark paused, then shrugged. It was a studied movement. "Sure, I had some bad moments. Who wouldn't? But I knew I had all of NASA pulling for me. With that many amazing people on your side, it's hard to get down for too long." Before the interviewer could respond Mark blinked and frowned, reevaluating his choice of words. “Uh, get depressed, I mean. There was no getting down. Boogie fever has also officially been banned on Mars.”

***

_[16:54] JPL: I'm sorry, Mark. There was an issue with the launch. Iris developed a shimmy soon after liftoff; we aren't sure of the cause yet, but we believe it may have had something to do with the payload shaking loose in the aeroshell. Unfortunately, it was too severe to compensate for. We had a complete loss of signal about ten minutes after launch. The USS Stockton spotted debris around that time. We believe it broke up completely while still in atmo._

_[16:56] JPL: This isn't the end of things, Mark. We'll come up with another solution._

_[17: 22] JPL: Mark?_

_[17:33] WATNEY: Copy that._

_[17:35] WATNEY: Earth's about to set. Talk to you tomorrow._

Mark shut the messaging system off and set his head in his hands, elbows braced on either side of the keyboard, staring down at his feet on the floor of the rover. He hadn't bothered to change out of his EVA suit, too excited to hear about the launch, though he'd pulled his helmet and gloves off.

...There was red Martian dirt all over the floor. He tracked it in every time he came in and out of the rover, and the floor was starting to look like someone had slaughtered a golem in here or something. He should probably sweep it out at some point, in case the fine Martian dust got into the computers and caused shorts in the electronics.

Then again, what was the point? He would starve to death before he'd need to worry about that. He was going to run out of food on Sol 584, and there was no probe coming for him.

"Shit," he said, to the emptiness of the rover. To the emptiness of the entire planet.

Unwillingly, his mind began to work on the problem, calculating it out. His dietician was already having hissy fits about how little he was eating-- an average of about 1800 calories a sol, when his caloric need under normal circumstances was closer to 3000-- but if he really, really worked at it, he could theoretically stretch out his food even further than he already was.

If he reduced from three-quarters rations to five-eights rations per sol, he could push back his end date another twenty sols or so, to Sol 604. The potatoes could be stretched as well-- the plan had been to eat ten a sol for 184 sols, for 1500 calories, but if he took out one potato a day, he'd be down to 1350, and would extend his time by a tenth-- a little over 18 days, putting him out to Sol 622. Dropping another potato a day would take him out to Sol 642. That was nearly sixty sols extra time. That many days would give NASA a chance to come up with another solution.

His stomach growled at the thought, and he rubbed his temples to distract it.

He couldn't keep up his current level of physical activity on that little food, though. He'd have to reduce his labor to make up for the reduced calories.

The extra experiments could go easily enough. Making the necessary repairs to the Hab would be more difficult, though; and the malnutrition would make it harder for him to think, potentially causing him to make a critical error. And it would mean he'd be sitting on his ass for twenty-four hours and 37 minutes a sol with nothing to do for entertainment but watch reruns. Yeah, so he'd developed a disturbing fondness for 70s television that he would never admit to anyone back on Earth, but even he had his limits.

No, better to just take the rest of Beck's morphine and get it over with.

"Shit," he repeated again. "Shit, shit, shit." That wasn't him. That really wasn't him.

He'd punch something, but there was nothing that was safe and non-delicate in the rover to punch. Except maybe the wall.

"...ow."

As it turned out, punching the wall kind of hurt. Who knew! He put his head back into his hands. Nothing much had changed from before except now his hand was throbbing with pain. It was a distraction, at least.

He sat there for another thirty minutes or so, watching Earth set those last few degrees, and working through his options. Finally the urge to pee grew too strong for him-- damn bodily functions!-- and as there was no reason to make the rover smell even more like piss than it already did, he put his helmet back on and cycled the rover airlock.

It took him the usual twenty minutes to get from the rover back to the HAB, cycle the HAB airlock, and remove his EVA suit. Afterwards, he spent some time doing the most tedious yet brain intensive work he could find, running and re-running various system checks, until it was far past midnight Mars time and his eyes were practically crossing with exhaustion. His brain was no longer spinning in circles.

Only after he'd verified that everything in the HAB was in absolutely top condition did he finally sit down on his bunk and try once more to think through his situation.

First things first: he wasn't going to kill himself. At least not right away. He still had 392 sols of food left; there was no point in wasting it. Not to mention that killing himself would be an incredibly shitty way to repay everyone at NASA for the insane amount of work they'd put into the Iris probe. Granted, it hadn't worked, but the effort had been there. No, he'd stick around for a while yet.

On the other hand, he wasn't going to reduce his food intake just to stretch his time out, either. He wasn't interested in spending the last few months of his life in utter misery. (Minor misery was acceptable.) Better to keep functional-- get in some of that 'bonus Mars time' Venkat had mentioned. If he was going to die here, he might as well leave behind a lasting legacy of science.

And, well, there were a hell of a lot of smart people at NASA. If anyone could figure out a way to save his life, it would be them.

He just couldn't see how.


	3. Mindy

"Your promotion was fairly sudden, then. What have you been doing now that Watney is back on Earth? Have you gone back to your old duties?"

"I'm still in charge of the satellite orbits around Mars, actually. It was supposed to just be a temporary thing while Mark was on Mars, but the previous head of the department retired, so the promotion seems to have stuck. No more space paparazzi duties, though. Well, unless you count all the Martian animals the conspiracy theorists keep finding in our photos!" 

"What, those aren't real?" They both laughed. “Alright, so after so long monitoring Watney from space, it must have been strange to meet him in person. What the meeting like? Was he everything you'd expected?"

Mindy grinned. "He's a pretty great guy," she said. "I was able to be there to watch the capsule splash down, but of course I didn't actually get to meet him until a few weeks later, at the recovery facility. He's hilarious. And very nice. I liked him." 

"Is he as irreverent in person as he appears in the logs?" 

Mindy bit her lip to hide a grin. "He was fine with me. Polite, even." 

***

The building was guarded, of course, but Venkat had been a frequent visitor over the last two weeks and the security officers just waved him and his guest through without question. 

The doctor on duty looked up from his paperwork as they approached. "Mr. Kapoor," he said, straightening up where he sat. "Can I help you?" He took in Mindy with a quick once-over, but didn't comment, either on her presence or the late hour of the visit. 

"We're here to visit Watney," Venkat said. 

The doctor arched a brow. "You know, he _is_ supposed to be in quarantine," he said. "That generally means we don't let people tromp in and out. His immune system still isn't up to par after so much time in space." 

Mindy shifted in place, unnerved by the doctor's frown. "It's fine," she said quickly, waving a hand. "I can wait to meet him; it's not a big deal."  

Venkat put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from backing off. "Dr. Carlton, out of all the people who have a right to meet Watney, she’s probably the one who deserves it the most.” 

Mindy turned pink at the praise and resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands.

Venkat noticed, leaning down and saying quietly, "I thought you were over this whole shy and retiring thing?"

"I'm about to meet MARK WATNEY," she whispered back intensely. Venkat just rolled his eyes and straightened. 

"Well, doctor?" 

"Have you been sick any time recently? Or been around anyone who was sick?" Dr. Carlton asked. 

"No." Mindy shook her head. Pre-warned that she would be going on this trip, she'd taken a few days off-- she'd earned a lot of comp time over the last couple of years-- just to make sure she wouldn't be spreading anything. 

"Hmm." To her surprise, Dr. Carlton gave a grudging sigh. "I suppose it's about time we started slowly exposing him to new people," he said. "Just... avoid _too_ much physical contact, please? Though I know it's difficult with him." 

"We'll try." With that cryptic comment, Venkat steered her around the desk and towards the room at the end of the hall. This facility had been designed to hold returning astronauts from both the Ares missions and other government and civilian space endeavors, to help them become acclimated to living in full gravity again. The rest of the Ares 3 crew had already been released, but NASA was being exceptionally cautious in all things when it came to Mark Watney. 

The door was partially open and the light was on, which at least alleviated Mindy's fear that they'd arrived when Watney was sleeping, though she supposed it wasn't that late. Only 7 pm Florida time, but it was the middle of January and it got dark early. Venkat knocked on the door frame and waited. 

There was the rustling of cloth from inside. "Come in," Watney called after a minute. 

They entered to find him sitting up in bed with a laptop next to him, though from the way his hair was mussed Mindy suspected he'd been lying down until just now. His expression eased when he saw Venkat, and turned a little puzzled when Mindy followed him through the door, though he smiled at her before turning back to Venkat. "Hey, Venkat. What's up?" 

It was incredibly bizarre to hear his voice, to see in person someone she'd only ever seen on satellite images or the TV before. She knew she was staring but couldn't help it, drinking in the sight. He looked good. Better than good, really. He'd gained back most of the weight he'd lost and though the muscle definition still had yet to come back, the leaner look was nice on him. 

More importantly, he was _alive_ and _on Earth_. She hadn't totally believed it until just now. Something in her eased for the first time in the three years since she'd clicked on those satellite photos. The relief left her dazed and giddy; a bubbly feeling, like she'd been drinking. 

"Mark, I wanted you to meet someone. This is Mindy Park from SatCon, in charge of the Martian satellite constellation." 

Watney sat up straighter. She could practically see his brain working through things-- Venkat's presence, her job title, the fact that they were both standing there in front of him when he hadn't yet been cleared to meet the general public—but not quite putting it together. His mouth pulled down in a puzzled frown. “Hi, Mindy; nice to meet you?” he offered.

“She’s the one who found you alive in the first place,” Venkat elaborated. Mark’s mouth shaped an ‘oh’, enlightenment dawning. He glanced back at her just as intensely as she’d been looking at him a moment earlier. Her heart rate kicked up a notch as their gazes connected. His eyes were vividly blue against the white of the hospital bed.

“I saw the changes you’d made on satellite imagery,” she said into the silence, her heart in her throat. “You’d cleared off the solar cells, and the rover was turned around from where Colonel Lewis had left it.” 

Venkat added, "She didn't just find you, she also was the one following you around Mars via satellite most of the time. We stuck her on Watney duty because she was the best at interpreting the imagery. Technically, every time you sent us a message via Morse code, you were talking to her." 

Watney’s eyebrows shot up and he made a noise of surprise, a grin starting to bloom across his face. “Well, shit.” To her surprise Mark swung his legs out of bed and stood, grabbing onto the railing of the bed as he wobbled a little. She and Venkat both leaned forward to catch him if necessary, mildly alarmed, but he stabilized on his own. The biomonitor to his right showed his blood pressure ticking briefly down and then back upwards. 

She expected him to try and shake hands. What she _didn't_ expect was for him to wrap her up in his arms, even lift her a tiny bit from the floor. It was in fact so out of left field that Mindy's brain shorted out temporarily. When it came back online she discovered that she was hugging him back fiercely, fists clenched in the fabric at the small of his back and face pressed to his chest. He smelled good, clean with a faint overlay of deodorant and hospital antiseptic, and he radiated warmth. 

The hug stretched on longer than propriety strictly dictated, but she didn't want to let go and she got the impression he didn't want to, either. Finally Venkat coughed into his fist, and reluctantly Mindy pulled away, though she didn't release her grip completely.

"Hi," she said belatedly. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head up to look him full in the face.

"Hi." He grinned down at her, a little crazy. "Sorry about that. I've been informed that my personal boundaries are a little bit fucked up these days." 

"He keeps touching people," Venkat said dryly. 

Mindy looked up at him, a little dazed. "That's fine," she said, and it was. More than fine, really. He was solid and warm underneath her hands and she kind of didn't want to let him go. Because he was Mark Watney (and really, really cute now that she was seeing him in person), but also because she'd spent a year and a half of her life following him around Mars, tracking his every movement, literally waking when he woke and going to sleep when he slept, and she was discovering that... well, she'd gotten a little invested. Maybe more than a little. 

Mark's grin had gone a little crooked. "Seriously, though, thank you so fucking much." He squeezed her shoulders in emphasis. “Holy shit, you saved my life.”

“Well, I helped at least,” Mindy said, starting to grin a little. 

“And you were – were you seriously the one following me around that whole time? When did you sleep?”

Mindy shrugged. “I slept when you slept.”

“But Mars’s day is forty minutes longer than Earth’s,” he protested. “Half the time when I was awake it was dark here.”

“I put aluminum foil over my windows so I could sleep during the day,” she confided. 

“That’s… that’s really dedicated,” he said, mouth quirking. 

"Hey, y'know, what's a couple years spent looking crazy to your neighbors between..." She'd been about to say 'friends', but stopped herself because even though she'd spent the last two years following him, he hadn't even known she'd existed until five minutes ago. “…uh, between space stalker and stalkee?” 

Mark’s eyes crinkled. He had a really nice smile. "How about we just call it friends?" he completed for her, and grinned back at her pleased expression. "Hey, anybody who’s spent as much time as you must have saving my ass deserves the title, believe me.” 

“Hey, I saved your ass, too,” Venkat put in from the sidelines. “Does that mean we’re friends?” 

“Not interested in being that kind of friends with you,” Mark called, irritated, and then froze, with a hilariously panicked expression on his face. “Uh.” He swallowed, wincing. “...Fuck. Did I really just say that out loud?”

“Yep,” Venkat said. All Mindy could do was stare, wide-eyed. Some indefinable emotion was curling in her stomach. 

“Ahaha. Uh, sorry.” He released Mindy like she was a hot coal. “Brain-mouth filter has yet to re-engage. Also, it's been like three years since I've gotten laid, so, uh." He made a vague, embarrassed gesture in her direction. "Pretty lady. Pretty lady who saved my life, even." 

Mindy flushed bright red. "Um." 

Mark put a hand over his face. "Oh, god. I’m just… going to go shoot myself.”

"Please don't," Venkat put in. 

"No, it's fine," Mindy said. Her heart was thumping like a drum. She cleared her throat; even so, her next words came out in a squeak. She couldn’t believe she was about to say this, but… "I could, uh, help you with that? If you wanted."

Mark's eyebrows shot up, but he said instantly, "Name the time and the place."

"Oh gods," Venkat said, putting a hand over his eyes. 

"Not while you're in quarantine!" Dr. Carlton bellowed from the other room.  

"So, after, then." She swallowed. Her hands had found their way back to his biceps. "We could go out to dinner? There's an incredible Korean place downtown. Their bibimbap is to die for. Even better than my mom makes." 

"I thought you were supposed to be shy," Venkat said plaintively to himself. Mindy ignored him. She was space paparazzi now, shyness was for nerds. 

There was this look on Mark's face that she really, really liked. It was thrilled and wondering and hungry, and she didn't think that all was for the idea of food. "That sounds perfect," he said.


	4. Martinez

The interviewer flipped briefly through his notes. "What were your plans if the resupply mission had failed? Records indicate that there wouldn't have been enough supplies to last until you were able to reach Earth again, and after the failure of the Iris probe, you must have had some concerns about the viability of the resupply." 

Martinez shrugged. "Honestly, we didn't have any specific plans. It was do or die, you know? And the Iris probe was a totally different situation. Mars probes are way more complicated than near-Earth resupplies, and we've done those literally hundreds of times with the ISS and the Athena missions. We had every faith in NASA's ability to get that resupply set up. Especially since I was the one piloting it." He grinned.

***

"Fifty-two, three, and four," Lewis said, tossing the last of the sesame chicken meal packs back into their container. "How many is that on the tetrazzini?" 

"--Eight, nine," Martinez finished counting. "Seventy-nine total," he said. The turkey tetrazzinni had proved less popular than the rest of the entrees, mostly because it was awful. Some things should not be freeze-dried.

Lewis nodded, entering the total into her tablet. Done with the inventory, she pulled up a chair to the table that sat at the center of their tiny dining room and sat down. It took her a few minutes to add the grand total up, but in the end she sighed and set the tablet down on the table. 

"All told, we've got enough food to last us 36 days after the rendezvous," she said. 

It was Lewis, so the way she said it was completely matter-of-fact, but Martinez had been working with her for three years now and he could see the worry in the stiffness of her shoulders. Not to mention that she'd added up the numbers three separate times to be sure, when she had a minor in math from her undergrad and could probably have done it in her head faster than it had taken her to type in the numbers.

"That's one month of food. And it'd be seventeen months before we'd get back to Earth again," Martinez said. 

“Mmhmm.” Lewis tapped her fingernails on the edge of the table. "One month of food for the six of us," she said quietly, though they were alone in this section of the ship, with Vogel on personal time in the exercise room, and Johanssen and Beck doing... whatever it was they got up to while they were alone. (Martinez wasn't sure Lewis knew about that one yet, though, and he wasn't going to be the one to rat them out.) She finished, "Six months of food for one of us." 

If she was expecting surprise, she didn't get it. Martinez had started thinking about it himself about halfway through the inventory, when it had become clear how low they were running on supplies. He shook his head. "Six months still isn't seventeen," he said. 

Lewis's eyes were steady on his. She hesitated, which was so unusual that Martinez immediately paid attention. Then she said, with such a complete lack of emotion that he knew it had to be deliberate, "In that case, with only one of us... there would be other sources of food available."

"Wha-- oh. Jesus." _That_ time she got surprise. Martinez leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest to give himself time to think, swallowing heavily. His stomach flip-flopped. "Well, that's... certainly an idea." 

"Just making plans," Lewis said quietly. "It's better to have something set up in advance than it would be to make the decision after something has already gone wrong." 

"Yeah. No, I get that." He rubbed his face. 

His initial burst of horrified revulsion aside, it wasn't actually the worst plan. (Where the worst plan was _all_ of them dying.) Unwillingly, his brain ran through the math. There were about 2000 calories in a kilo of meat; based on their respective weights, that averaged out to about 120,000 calories per person, or 480,000 calories total for four of them. At, say, fifteen hundred calories a day, that would last 320 days, or nearly 11 months. Added to the actual ration packs, whoever was alive could almost certainly stretch that out to seventeen months.

 "The numbers work out," he said, slowly. Then he had to shake his head in disbelief. How was this his life, that he was working out the math of _cannibalism?_

The tension in Lewis' shoulders eased minutely. She'd probably been worried how he'd react. But astronauts were practical types, and Martinez especially so. He'd rather have one of them survive if they could, even if it meant they had to eat his (handsome, if he did say so) corpse.

He tried not to think too hard about what his wife and son would think of it. If they ever found out.

"Who'd be the lucky camper, though?" he asked. "Flip a coin?" 

"Whoever burns the least calories. And whoever has the skill and ability to survive and get back to Earth on their own," Lewis said. "I'm guessing at least for the former, that's Johanssen. But we can check. Beck should have our metabolism charts on his station." 

There was an access terminal in the corner; Martinez changed it to Beck's workstation and poked around through his documentation until he found the files they were looking for. "Yep," he said after a minute. "Johanssen's basal metabolism is 1780 calories a day. You're next, at 1900. Beck is 2000. Vogel and I are about the same, at 2300." He let out a breath of-- relief? Something like it, anyways.

"Hmm," Lewis said, rubbing her face. "So Johanssen, Beck and I would be the primary candidates." She tapped a finger on the table. "But when it comes to skills, I'm probably the least qualified to be left on this ship by myself. I'm a geologist, and there isn't exactly any geology to perform in space." 

It was hard to tell with her, but he thought he saw some measure of relief on her face as well. 

"That probably takes Beck out of the running, too. No patients for him to take care of."

"The EVA specialization might come in handy." 

Martinez nodded. "But Johanssen's both the sysop and the reactor tech, and backup on orbital dynamics. Those skills would almost certainly be useful on the trip, considering how likely things are to start breaking as time goes on. We're getting pretty close to end of life for a lot of components."

"It's too bad Watney's not here," she said, almost to herself. "He'd be good for fixing things around the ship, too." 

"If Watney were here we wouldn't be having this discussion in the first place," Martinez felt compelled to point out. "Also, he burns nearly as many calories as Vogel and I do." 

"Right." Lewis shook her head. "So, Johanssen it is. Presuming the others agree, of course. This isn't a decision I can make unilaterally." She paused, then raised her eyebrows. "What do you think? Are you okay with it?" 

"'Okay'... is not exactly the right word for it. 'Okay' is so far from what this discussion is, actually, that it's on the entire other side of the galaxy. I hate it. It's a horrible idea." Martinez paused. "But it's also the only one we have right now, and I'd rather at least one of us survived to get back home." 

Lewis nodded. "We'll try to come up with something better. But just in case, we'll have that option." She sighed. "I'll call a crew meeting in a few days. No point in making them worry about it for longer than they have to. Keep this to yourself for now, alright?" 

"Got it."  

Lewis stood up to put away the last few scattered meal packs; Martinez stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. 

"Don't get yourself too hung up on this either, alright? NASA's had a lot of practice at this resupply thing." He grinned. "And more importantly, _I'll_ be the one piloting the supply vehicle, and I'm a pretty awesome pilot, if I do say so myself. I haven't let you guys down yet, have I?" 

She nodded and said, "Thanks, Rick," which wasn't really an answer. Martinez watched her head down the hallway, then turned to finish cleaning up. 

And if he spent every spare moment he had up until the rendezvous practicing proximity ops, well, who could blame him.


	5. Lewis

"What do you have to say about the rumors that Hermes had not been authorized to return to Mars at the time your first course change was made, and that NASA covered this up afterwards to avoid embarrassment?"

Lewis's eyes went steely. "That would have been mutiny. And as I'm sure you understand, as a officer in the Navy, I take mutiny _very_ seriously."

"A number of NASA insiders have mentioned that when the first course change came through, Mission Control didn't know about it--"

"I can't speak to what Mission Control did or did not know and in what order, since I wasn't there. But I _can_ tell you that no matter what NASA insiders you've been talking to, they were not standing on the bridge of my ship when I received and executed instructions from NASA to complete the Rich Purnell maneuver. I don't know how to be clearer than that." 

***

211 days after leaving Mars, the capsule splashed down into the Indian Ocean. It was immediately fished out and hauled on board a Navy destroyer, and the six of them were helped out, still wobbly from the low gravity, to the wild cheers of everyone on board. The contingent from NASA quickly hustled them out of sight, though not before Watney did some mugging for the cameras. And nearly tripped and fell on his face, the dork; after three years at 0.4 g, a full 1 g was going to take some getting used to again. The NASA doctors made him sit in a chair and get carried out after that. Melissa left slowly, but on her own power. Walking felt like a thousand bricks were tied to her feet, but she was determined to do it on her own.

First they were led to the room where their family was waiting. Her husband was there, and Melissa swept him up into her arms and refused to let go for a solid five minutes, feeling his heart beat under her hand and his breath mingle with hers. In the other corners of the room she could see Martinez's wife kissing him senseless, Beck shyly introducing Johanssen to his family, and Watney's parents sobbing in joyous relief as they both tried to hug him at once. Their hair was grayer than the last time Melissa had seen them, the day before the Hermes launch, but she'd never seen two people so happy. Watney buried his face in his mother's shoulder, and Melissa hastily turned away as he started crying, too. 

Instead, she turned back to her husband and smiled up at him. He grinned back, and she felt that familiar flutter in her stomach that hadn't gone away despite fifteen years of marriage.

"When you get home, I have a present for you," he said, reaching out and tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. She wouldn't have let anyone else get away with that, but with him it was alright. 

Melissa waggled her eyebrows at him. "Oh yeah?" 

Smirking, he brought his mouth close to her ear, and she felt a shiver down her spine. "I found you a mint condition copy of the original printing of ABBA's _Voulez Vous_ ," he breathed.

"Ooh, sweetheart." She grinned up at him. "You know me so well." 

Eventually, NASA personnel came in and started herding the crew towards the rooms where they'd be spending their time on the way back to shore. They had doctors and checkups and tests scheduled all that afternoon-- and for most of the foreseeable future, for that matter. Reluctantly, Melissa pulled away from her husband, and let him help her towards the exit. 

On the way, she spotted someone leaning against the wall in the corner, not talking to anyone, eyes fixed only on Watney. He had his arms crossed over his chest and a small, fiercely satisfied smile was playing over his lips as he watched the tableau. 

Throughout the mission, there'd been one mystery she hadn't known the answer to, though she'd had her suspicions, and she hadn't been able to ask over the comms with everyone reading their mail. But watching the man's expression, she knew her guess had been correct.

She pressed a hand to her husband's chest. "Just a second," she asked, and he nodded. 

The man switched over to watching her as she approached, and he straightened. "Commander Lewis," he said. 

"It's not Commander at the moment," she said. "The Ares 3 mission has officially ended, and right now I'm off duty. Mitch." She stepped up and enfolded him in a hug. Mitch stiffened in surprise. 

 "Well, what's this for?" he asked. It took him a second, but then he put his arms around her as well, and patted her back awkwardly. 

"It's to say thank you." Stepping back, she held him at arm's length to look him in the eye. There was a lot she couldn't say explicitly in this environment, with so many people around, but it was quite possible she wouldn't see him again in person for weeks, and she didn't want to let this go any longer than she already had. "And Mitch. For the record? Rich Purnell's not the only steely-eyed missile man around here." 

Mitch's smile went a little crooked. "I'm sure I haven't the foggiest clue what you're talking about," he said. 

"Of course not." Lewis squeezed his arms, then let go. "But if you ever need anything... let's just say, we all owe you." 

"Understood." Mitch's smile deepened. "And Commander... very nicely done yourself, as well."

"Thank you." Lewis backed off. Mitch's eyes went immediately back to the tearful hug still ongoing in the corner. The NASA personnel were hovering, trying to subtly herd Watney towards the exit, but not having the heart to break up the heartfelt reunion. 

Lewis went back to her husband. "What's that smile for?" he asked, as he tucked a hand under her elbow and led her towards the exit. 

She realized she was grinning. "Just glad to be back," she said.


	6. Johanssen

The interviewer leaned closer. "And now I have to ask a question every woman on the planet is dying to know. It's been widely reported that you and Chris Beck became a couple during your time on the Ares. So, tell me: What's sex in zero g like?"

A muscle in Johanssen's jaw jumped. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When she spoke her words were calm and measured. "As I've said before, multiple times, Dr. Beck and I didn't get together until we returned to Earth. So I'm afraid I wouldn't know."  

"But--" 

Johanssen rolled right over her. "Not to mention, that's both an incredibly sexist and incredibly rude thing to ask. Did you ask any of the men that? Even Beck? Or just me, because I'm a woman? I mean, come on. Ask me about the science I did on the mission or something." 

The interviewer glanced over at someone standing behind the camera. Whatever she saw there made her decision for her, because she pasted a smile on her face and turned back to Johanssen. "Fine. Back to the period right after the storm..." 

***

 Johanssen moaned as Beck's mouth moved lower. "Oh my god, Chris," she gasped, hands tightening on the ladder above her head. They'd settled on the corridor between the reactor room and Airlock 2 as the best location for this particular experiment; it was fairly cramped, which was important when trying to get leverage in zero gravity, and out of the way, which was important when you were trying to avoid scarring your crewmates. "Oh my god, right there, please--" She came hard, clenching around his fingers, and for a moment the world whited out.

"Oh, crap." That wasn't what you really wanted to hear in a position like this. Johanssen forced her eyes open, though her muscles were lax and loose. Beck was still holding onto her thigh with one hand, but his feet had come loose from where he'd hooked them under a piece of equipment on the opposite wall, and he was floating free, without enough momentum to get himself back to the wall. He gazed across at her, eyes wide. "Uh... a little help here, Beth?" 

Johanssen burst into giggles. She shook her head, raking her eyes over his unbuttoned shirt, the way his dick was peeking out of his fly, still hard (getting an erection in zero g was difficult but boy had they worked at it). "I dunno, that's a pretty good look on you," she said.

Beck flushed red up to the tips of his ears, which just made it better. "It's almost time for the rest of the crew to wake up," he pointed out. "Unless you want them to catch us..."

"Mm, I suppose not." Taking pity on him, Johanssen used her grip on the ladder to haul him in. He grabbed the ladder over her head once he was close enough, and entwined his legs through hers to hook into the rungs. His dick was now within easy reach, which was convenient. And, bonus: with him pressing her into the ladder with the weight of his body, she didn't need both hands to hold on. She reached down. His breath went out in a choked off moan. 

"Don't let go," she whispered, and floated lower to get a better angle.


	7. Vogel

"Many have questioned NASA's initial handling of the Mark Watney incident. For example, the fact that it took them nearly two months to inform you that Watney was alive has been characterized as unnecessarily cruel. What would you say to these critics?" 

Vogel frowned. "I would say I think it is very easy to criticize the decisions of others when you are not the one who has to make them. NASA had reasons for their decision. They thought it would be better for us to think him dead than to know that we had left him behind alive." 

"Do _you_ think it was better not to know?" 

"I think... it was hard thinking he was dead, but it was also hard knowing he was alive and alone." Vogel shrugged. "I do not know that I could pick between the two." 

***

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Martinez, nearly up to his shoulder in the wall panel, twisted and hauled, muscles standing out in his arms as he tried to turn his wrench. Said wrench refused to turn. Martinez cursed again and yanked harder. 

Vogel had been headed down the ladder that led to the rec room, having just finished checking their course updates and being due for his usual exercise regimen, but now he paused instead, attention caught by the swearing. It was the most evidence of life he'd heard out of the crew since they'd left Mars six weeks before, and he had to admit he was curious. He dropped off the ladder on the mid-level instead. Exercise could be completed later. 

"Do you need help?" he asked, standing over Martinez, one hand on a railing to keep himself in place. The gravity in the mid-level was only 0.2g, equivalent to that on the Moon, and there was a reason there were so many [videos on the internet of the Apollo astronauts falling over](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=astronauts+falling+over+moon). It was easy to forget and lose your balance.

Martinez pulled out of the panel, face red and sweating. "What I need is for this fucking connector to release," he said, wiping a hand across his forehead. "Stupid thing's gone and got itself stuck."

"You are working on the water recycling system, yes?" Vogel leaned in closer to take a look.

"Yeah. There's a clog or something, and I need to slide the pipe out before I can fix it." Martinez shone his flashlight inside so Vogel could take a look. The filtration system was designed so that any one section could be easily swung out to conduct maintenance. Well, easily in theory. 

"That looks like rust around the connector," Vogel said, frowning. 

"Yeah. There's more back around the back, too." 

Rust was bad. Rust meant water leaking, and water leaking meant water getting into sensitive electronics, and them all theoretically dying. As Vogel wanted very much to live to return home to his wife and children, he was not a fan of rust. 

"Allow me to try?" Martinez moved out of the way as Vogel took his place, bracing his legs against the wall. Low gravity made it easier to move heavy things. It did not, however, help with torque. Vogel hauled on the wrench, feeling the connector grind in place, but it refused to loosen. His muscles stood out taut in his arms. Finally he let go. The wrench slipped off, bounced on the floor, and ended up several feet away. "Scheiße." 

"That's what I said." Martinez picked up the wrench and idly smacked it into his palm, looking at the pipe with a thoughtful expression that, under the circumstances, was somewhat disturbing. Vogel stood. 

"It's that piece of shit wrench you're using," he said. "You need one with a longer handle, to increase your leverage. I know we have one around here."

"Couldn't find it," Martinez said. He sat down in front of the open panel and gazed intently inside.

"I think Watney was using it last, it might be in his quarters--" Vogel stopped. He wasn't sure, but he got the impression Martinez was avoiding looking at him. "I will go check," he said, gentler. 

"Sure. Thanks." Martinez was arm deep in the panel again, trying something else. 

Mark's quarters were in the outer level, next to Martinez's and across from Lewis's. Vogel stepped off the ladder, instantly adjusting to the change in gravity, and walked the few steps over to Mark's door. And there he stopped, hand on the knob. There were very few real doors on the Hermes-- NASA hadn't wanted to lift the extra weight into orbit-- but one of the lessons NASA had learned from the long-term habitation experiments on the ISS was that personal privacy was very important to people's psychological well-being, and so personal quarters rated actual, physical doors. Over the course of the Hermes missions it had become almost taboo to go into someone else's quarters without their permission. 

Vogel wasn't a terribly sentimental person. But it still felt wrong to push the door open and step inside without knocking first. 

Mark's room was exactly as he'd left it on the day they'd descended to Mars. There were clothes strewn across the bed. His USB entertainment stick had been left plugged into the computer where he'd forgotten it; Vogel still remembered Mark complaining during the rest breaks on Mars that he'd had nothing to do to keep himself occupied. (This had, of course, ended in the expected manner: Lewis assigning him more work to do.) And there, shoved half-under the bed, was the wrench Vogel had come here for. 

He picked it up before he could think about it and left at a respectable clip. 

Martinez was still in the same spot Vogel had left him, and still, if the swearing was anything to judge by, having no luck with the connector. He disengaged when he heard Vogel's footsteps, and brightened when he saw the wrench in Vogel's hands. "Hey, thanks," he said, reaching for it. 

Vogel swapped him for the shorter wrench, and sat down to watch Martinez work. With the greater leverage, the bolt slowly, slowly began to turn. After a few seconds, Vogel leaned in and added his weight to it, and then the bolt released all in a rush. 

"Hah! Take that, fucker." Martinez leaned in and swung the pipe out; a brief gush of liquid spurted from it, leaving a small puddle on the floor. "That's... less than I expected, actually," Martinez commented. He peered into the end of the pipe, shining his flashlight down its length. "There's something at the end blocking it..." Pulling out a long, thin metal rod from his pack of tools, he pushed it down, scraped it around for a second, and then pulled it back. It came back coated with a yellowish white substance. He held it up to his nose and sniffed, made a face, and held it out for Vogel's inspection. 

It smelled ever so faintly... well, like urine. Vogel rubbed the substance between his fingers. It was gritty and chalky. "Calcium sulfate?" he said. "I can check it in the lab later to be sure, but it looks like it to me." 

"That's what I was thinking, too," Martinez said. 

One of the persistent problems with the ISS's water reclamation system had been the buildup of calcium sulfate. This was due to the way the excess calcium that was pissed out by the astronauts in zero gravity (due to bone loss) interacted with the chemicals used for pre-treating the urine to prevent bacterial growth. Another name for calcium sulfate, as Vogel understood it, was plaster-of-paris. "I thought the Hermes's system was supposed to have fixed that problem." 

"It was." Martinez rubbed his face. "...Okay. So. The calcium sulfate buildup probably caused the water pressure to increase past the tolerances in this section of pipe, which would explain the rust. There’s a bend in the pipe right beyond this, which is probably why the calcium is sticking here. As for the calcium itself... it could be coming from anywhere within the system, but considering this line is directly downstream from the bunk toilet, I'm guessing that's the likely culprit." 

"That would make sense," Vogel agreed. 

"The toilet is set up so that the urine is shunted into the pre-treatment equipment first. It adds a bunch of chemicals to inhibit bacterial growth, then the entirety of it is flushed down to the vacuum pump system. Then the vacuum pump separates out all the crap we don't want to drink from the pure H20." Martinez paused. "...And that's as much as I know about that." 

Vogel tapped his fingers thoughtfully. "The treated urine doesn't sit for very long. There shouldn't be enough time for it to turn into calcium sulfate. Especially not this much in one spot." He stopped, just as stumped.  

They both sat there and stared at the pipe for a minute. No answers presented themselves. Finally Martinez groaned and stretched, arms above his head. "We should probably send a message to NASA. I'm sure they'll be able to figure it out faster than we could." 

"I'll get something to clean out the pipe temporarily. An acid wash should do it." 

But neither of them attempted to get up. 

Finally Martinez sighed sharply. "Fuck, I wish Mark was here. He'd have this figured out in half a minute." 

Vogel smiled. "And then he'd say 'Step back, I'm going to do science!'" he said, in a bad imitation of Mark's accent. 

Martinez let out a choked-off laugh. "God. Yeah. That's him." He rubbed his face, and with his shoulders slumped like that, he looked abruptly older. Older and tired. "I miss that idiot." 

Vogel had to swallow past the sudden well of grief in his chest. He hadn't been as close to Mark as Martinez had been, but it was impossible to be on the same crew as someone-- go through months of training with them, be stuck in a spaceship with them-- without coming to like and care for them. And Mark was one of those people that everyone liked. "And I as well."

Vogel was not unfamiliar with death in its many and various forms. His father had died unexpectedly when he was fourteen in a welding accident; his mother back on Earth was in the last long declining stages of Alzheimer's, her mind gone but body left behind. Mark's death was the worst of both worlds; too sudden to prepare for, yet his presence lingered still on the ship, in both the things he'd left behind and the spaces where he ought to be. There was no way avoid it, not on a ship with only five people. His absence was practically tangible. And painful. There was nowhere on the ship to get away from his loss. 

...Which triggered a thought. Vogel frowned. "You said the urine is treated and then flushed down to the vacuum pump system, yes?" 

"Right." Martinez was frowning thoughtfully at him. "Got an idea?" 

"Perhaps." Vogel stood. "It depends on how the system is structured. I think I remember there is a tank, but..." 

They trooped back down a level-- Vogel felt the heavier gravity settle like grief onto his bones-- to the crew area, where the toilet was located. Vogel opened up the panel in the floor where the equipment was hidden. And sure enough, there was a small tank tucked in there, about three-quarters full of treated urine just waiting to be flushed down the pipes when it was full enough. Another box on top was the chemical storage, which released into the tank every time the toilet was used. Vogel borrowed Martinez's flashlight and shone it through the clear plastic of the tank. The sides and bottom were coated with the same white, gritty substance as the pipe. "Ah," he said with satisfaction. "I think I know what is happening." 

Martinez sat back on his heels. "Do tell," he said, with an inquiring tilt to his eyebrow. 

"It has actually to do with the way the system judges when to transfer the waste down to the vacuum pump. I will need to check manual to confirm this, but it appears to me the system waits until the tank is full to flush the contents, to minimize energy usage. So toilet might be used four, five times before tank empties." 

Martinez was frowning thoughtfully. "Okay, and...?" 

Vogel shrugged. "The toilet is being used less often now that—“ he paused, amending his words, “--now. The tank gets emptied less frequently, so there is more time for the calcium to precipitate out. The precipitate sticks onto the surrounding material and begins to build up. Then, when the tank flushes, it goes down not as small particles suspended in liquid, but as large flakes. These flakes get trapped in the pipe and start building up, which causes increased pressure, which caused the liquid to leak out and rust the bolt... "

Martinez reached out and tapped on the side of the tank. A large piece of calcium broke off the and sank slowly to the bottom. "So what I'm hearing you saying," he said, "is that this is Mark fucking with us from beyond the grave."

Vogel was startled into a laugh. "I suppose this is one way of looking at it, yes." 

"Wouldn't surprise me at all if his ghost was sticking around, honestly. Sure feels like some days--" Martinez broke off. When Vogel looked over, he was smiling and shaking his head. It was the least happy smile Vogel had ever seen. "Sorry. Anyways."

Vogel tilted his head. "Feels like what?" 

Martinez shrugged. It took him a moment to answer. "Like I'm going to turn a corner and run into him." He swallowed, and his voice when he spoke again was rough and hoarse. He wouldn't look at Vogel. "He was my best friend, you know? And I just... keep forgetting he's dead. I'll think of something I want to tell him, and turn around to look for him, and then I'll remember. He's dead and we left his body on the surface of fucking _Mars_. Couldn't even fucking bury him."

Vogel didn't know what to say, so instead he settled down on the floor next to Martinez and wrapped an arm around him. Martinez leaned into the touch, tense and miserable but needing the comfort. 

"In all likelihood, based on wind patterns, Mars will eventually bury Mark itself," Vogel offered, knowing it for cold comfort.

"That… really doesn’t help, dude." 

“I know. I am sorry.” But it was all that he had. 

Vogel sat there with his arm around Martinez and stared at the broken things in front of him (even the Hermes, apparently, responding to Mark’s absence in the only way it could), and wished, desperately, miserably, that Mark was still alive somehow.


	8. Beck

"As Watney's doctor, how would you say his recovery has been going?" 

"Technically, now that we're back on Earth, I'm not his doctor anymore. But it's going quite well, actually. He's put on almost all of the weight he lost, and the muscle definition as well, although that's been slower going due to the aftereffects of being in low gravity for so long."

"What about psychologically? Research has shown that extended isolation can cause long-lasting side effects. Has Mark shown any signs of psychological issues stemming from his time on Mars?" 

"Well, first of all, it'd probably be better to ask an actual psychologist that-- I just play one on TV." The interviewer laughed dutifully. "No, but seriously, Mark is an incredibly resilient guy. He was able to stay focused on solving the problems that needed to be solved on Mars and that helped him get out of the situation without many issues, I think. How it'll affect him long-term I don't know, but knowing Mark, he'll do fine."

"But surely there's no way a person could come out of that unchanged. Coming back from Mars, you would have been first to see any problems that might have been developing." 

On the camera, it was clear that Beck was gritting his teeth. "Sorry-- anything like that would have been between Mark and the NASA psychologist, Dr. Shields. Feel free to try asking her." 

***

For the record: Beck is a NASA flight surgeon, with a specialization in Aerospace Medicine. He'd taken the bare minimum number of psychology courses required to get his degree, which had been years ago, and while he'd taken refresher courses before leaving for Mars, they had been primarily focused on dealing with the interpersonal issues that might arise from living in such close quarters. Whoever had put together the course work had shockingly not included topics such as _how to help someone who's been trapped alone on Mars for the last year and a half_ , with a sub-heading of _who is currently sitting on the couch in the rec room and crying._

This was the kind of thing that under ordinary circumstances he'd defer to Dr. Shields, the flight psychologist for the Ares missions, but the current communications round-trip between Mars and Earth was around fifteen minutes and waiting for a response would be worse than useless. So it was him on the line, and he was kind of flying blind here. 

He rubbed his face. It was one o'clock in the morning, mission time, and he'd just gotten up for a drink of water. He was sure Watney hadn't expected anyone to find him here at this time of night, and knowing Watney, he probably wouldn't appreciate someone catching him like this. Beck seriously considered just turning around and going back to bed, where Beth would be waiting for him. 

But the thing was... he might not have anywhere near as much background in psychology as he needed for something like this, but he did have a fair amount of background in friendship, and he was pretty sure it would be a shitty thing to do to just ignore a friend crying alone in the middle of the night, in that slow, miserable way that indicated he'd been doing it for a while. 

Squaring his shoulders, he backed up a few steps and then walked into the room, trying to step as heavily and noisily as one could in 0.2 gravity. 

It worked; Watney was sitting up straighter and rubbing hastily at his face with his sleeve when he came in this time. "Hey," Beck said, and headed for the water dispenser, as if he hadn't noticed the tear tracks Watney hadn't quite managed to get rid of. "You're up late." 

Watney cleared his throat. "Yeah, adjusting to mission time again is kicking my ass," he said, voice still bearing traces of hoarseness. 

Beck poured two glasses of water-- dehydration was a concern in space, especially when you'd just lost a bunch of water-- and brought it with him over to the couch. He set the glasses on the table and, after a moment to consider his options, sat down on the couch directly next to Watney. (He'd been trying to strike a balance between providing Mark with the physical closeness he'd been without the last year and a half and also not overwhelming him with too much input at once, but this case seemed to call for prioritizing the former.) "Need me to proscribe you some sleep meds?" he asked, and handed over one of the glasses. 

Watney took the glass and sipped at it absently, then seemed to realize he actually was thirsty, and within a few seconds had downed the entire glass. 

Beck handed over the other glass without comment. Watney sipped more slowly at this one. "Maybe if it doesn't clear up in a couple days," he answered eventually, which was more of a concession than Beck had been expecting. He really must not have been sleeping well. There were dark circles starting to develop under his eyes. 

"Whatever you want," Beck said easily. Then he settled back into the couch and deliberately let the silence stretch. 

Mark had never been very good at staying quiet, always quick to jump in with a joke or an anecdote to fill awkward silences. He was good at keeping the conversation moving and making sure everyone contributed equally. Paradoxically, his time on Mars had only exacerbated this tendency; it was as if now that he could talk to people again, it was all he wanted to do—although his brain-mouth filter hadn’t yet come back online, which could be occasionally hilarious. Still, Mark held out for a while, drinking his water, long enough that Beck was starting to wonder if there was something _really_ wrong. His brow furrowing, he looked Watney over again. Watney's ribs had been healing well despite the low gravity, but even though he said his pain was going down, he'd still been using the painkillers Beck issued him. He'd mentioned having some back problems on Mars as well-- maybe those were acting up? Frowning, he was just about to open his mouth and ask if Watney needed anything, when Watney leaned forward and set down the water glass a little too hard on the table. The water inside sloshed upwards in the low gravity, then slowly settled back down into the glass.  

"You can stop looking at me like that," he said abruptly. 

Startled, Beck asked, "Like what?" 

Watney's mouth twisted. "Like I'm something broken that needs fixing." 

Beck opened his mouth, thought better of his first response, took a moment to consider, and then said carefully, "I was trying to figure out if your ribs were still hurting you. Since I'm your doctor, and that's part of my job." 

Watney blinked. "Oh." One hand rose to his ribs, clenched in the air over them without actually touching-- they _were_ hurting him, then-- and then went to rub at the bridge of his nose instead. Abruptly the tension dropped out of his shoulders, and his expression when he looked up again was clear again, and a little rueful. "Sorry, I just--. Shit. Sorry. Didn't mean to be an asshole." 

"It's alright. You've got some leeway to be an asshole, all things considered." Beck hesitated, then asked carefully, "Something on your mind?" 

Watney blew out a breath. "That obvious, huh?" 

Beck pinched his fingers together. "Little bit," he said, drawing out the 'i'. 

Watney's smile was a bit more genuine this time. "Yeah, the bawling like a baby part was probably a clue, huh." He sighed and rubbed his eyes again. 

"Mmm," Beck said. He let the silence stretch again, and this time the tactic was more successful. 

"I had a chat with Dr. Shields today," Watney said. "Or, well, as much of a conversation as we could get, with the round trip time being what it is." At a little under fifteen minutes total, conversations tended to be really more like a series of quick letters. 

Beck quirked his eyebrows. "And how'd that go?" he asked, since that seemed to be what Watney was waiting for. 

Watney shrugged one-shouldered. "It was fine. She's a nice lady." She really was. Incredibly smart, too. Also about sixty years old, and she put Beck in mind of his mother. "She was talking about what I ought to expect as I readjust. About how it's probably not going to be as easy as I think it is, and that I shouldn't be surprised if I have some setbacks, because you get so used to living under that kind of stress for so long that you don't know how to deal when it goes away." 

So far Beck wasn't seeing the problem; it sounded like the same kind of advice he would have given, if asked. "Okay," he said. 

"So, I was thinking about it, and I was shrugging it off mostly, because hey, I've been back for two weeks and I haven't had a breakdown yet, right? I'm pretty resilient, I got through Mars just fine, I didn't see why I was going to have one now that things were easy again." His breathing had picked up. "And then I realized it was past midnight and I was still awake to think about it because I'd been roaming the halls for the last two hours, checking to make sure nothing had gone wrong with the Hermes. Even though I know everyone did their evening checks, and all the system statuses were showing green. I just couldn't let it go. And then I tried to make myself go to bed and couldn't, so I came out here to get some tea or something, sat down on the couch instead, and-- well. Here I am." 

"Hmm," Beck said.

Watney eyed Beck. "You're being very noncommittal about my potential complete mental breakdown," he said. He was trying to be funny, but it wasn't really working, not when it was too obvious he was kind of freaking out. 

Beck thought through all his possible responses. Then, instead of picking one right away, he held out an arm. 

Watney side-eyed it, and him. "What is that supposed to be?" he asked. 

Beck sighed. "I'm trying to give you a hug, you dork." Then he suited actions to words and wrapped a quick arm around Watney's shoulders and pulled him in.

"Ack," Watney said. "Help, help, I'm being molested." But he leaned immediately into the hug, snaking his arms around Beck's waist and pressing his face into the side of his neck. Beck tried hard not to think too much about how thin Watney was under his hands, how little padding there was over his bones, as he ran his hand over the scapulae like blades, the hard ridges of his spine. After a few minutes Beck felt him start to relax, the muscles in his back loosening and his breathing evening out. Once he seemed less like he was about to have another panic attack right then and there, Beck pulled back, though he made sure they were still in physical contact. 

"So, you're having problems with anxiety." He rubbed a hand over his mouth, and considered his next words carefully. "Honestly, I'd be more surprised if you _weren't."_

Watney was looking at him like he was about to share the secrets to the universe, and it was a little unnerving. 

"Chronic stress causes changes in the hippocampus and amygdala, which--" 

Okay, now Watney was glaring at him. Beck sighed and attempted to translate from medical-ese. "Uh, basically: you were in a shitty situation where literally anything could kill you, and your brain got used to it. So, yeah, you're going to keep looking around for problems even now that you're back on Hermes. It's normal. It's not actually even a terrible thing here, since you technically _are_ still in an environment where anything could kill you." 

"Wow, thanks for the reassurance," Watney muttered, leaning back and crossing his arms across his chest. 

_"--However,"_ Beck stressed, "it's not going to be permanent. Brains are plastic. You got used to being on Mars and having to constantly keep watch all by yourself. You'll get used to being back on Hermes, where you have us to watch your back. And you'll get used to being back on Earth, too. There might be some uncomfortable moments, but they _will_ go away. Just give it time."

Watney swallowed. "You sure about that?" he asked, voice small.

"It's _you_ , so yeah. You're not wrong, you are a pretty resilient guy. Anyone else would have had an actual mental breakdown by this point. Having a mild freakout doesn't count, for the record." Beck reached out and nudged Watney with his elbow. "You're a pretty amazing person, Watney." 

Watney blew out a breath. He sat there for a moment, just staring down at his feet, and Beck couldn't see his expression. Then he rubbed his face and when he dropped his hands again, he looked a little steadier, a little more like his usual self. "God, you're such a sap," he drawled.

"Oh, I see how it is. This is what I get for sharing my doctorly wisdom with you, huh?"

"'Doctorly wisdom'? I coulda got better advice off the back of a cereal box." But Watney knocked his knee fondly against Beck's. 

They sat there, and when it became obvious Watney had no plans to go anywhere, being still too wound up, Beck dropped his arm around Watney's shoulders and pulled him in again, and Watney relaxed against him.

Right when Beck was starting to think he’d fallen asleep, Watney muttered, “God, I hope you’re right,” into his shoulder. 

“I am,” Beck said, and dropped his chin to rest on Watney’s head.

Eventually his breathing evened out, and Beck realized he'd fallen asleep.

Beck sat there and stared at the ceiling. Well, there were worse ways to spend a night than being used as a pillow by a friend, he supposed. And there was no such thing as an uncomfortable couch in 0.2 g. Swinging his feet up onto the coffee table, he relaxed into the cushions, and listened to Watney breathe.


	9. Annie

Annie took them out for beer afterwards. Not for their sakes, but because she needed one, and she was sick and tired of drinking alone. Besides, she probably ought to debrief them. 

"So? How did it go?" she asked, after they'd settled into a booth at the back of the bar and their drinks had been delivered, ignoring the wide-eyed looks of the waitress and the rest of the bar with the ease of people who had had a lot of practice over the last year. The music was loud and the other patrons soon started up talking again, the noise of which covered up their conversation. 

"They asked me about space sex," Johanssen said gloomily. 

"They asked me about disco," Mark said, and shuddered. 

"They asked me about the resupply. I had to avoid telling them about the cannibalism," Martinez said, and then flinched as Johanssen elbowed him sharply. 

Annie nearly spit out her first sip of beer and turned a horrified look on them both. " _What_ cannibalism?" she asked in what she considered to be a perfectly reasonable tone of voice. Judging by the way Martinez was trying to scoot away from her in the booth, she hadn't succeeded. 

"There was no actual cannibalism!" Martinez said, holding up his hands placatingly.

"Obviously," Mark said, with a glance around at the five astronauts, still intact and whole.

"Then why did you--" Annie paused and reevaluated her life decisions. "You know what? Never mind. For the sake of my own mental health, I don't want to know." 

"That's probably wise," Lewis said, very dry. She took a careful sip of her own drink, and didn’t look Annie in the eye, by which Annie deduced that they weren’t actually joking and that cannibalism had in fact been a real danger at some point during the mission. Probably, if she had to hazard a guess, around the time of the resupply. Dear Jesus Christ, what an incredible clusterfuck _that_ would have been. Annie knocked back her beer. She was done with being sober. She could get a taxi later.

“What about you?” she asked Lewis, once she could feel the buzz kicking in. 

Lewis shrugged. “They asked about the you-know-what. I deflected, as you recommended. It seemed to work.” 

“Thank Christ. Mindy? Vogel?” 

There was a reassuring chorus of “It was fine,” and “Nothing to report.” Annie knew there was a reason she loved them best.

“Good work, kids. Beers are on me.” She waved the waitress back over, and leaned down to grab her purse off the floor. While down there, she saw Mindy’s hand running up Mark’s thigh. 

…She definitely needed more beer.

As the waitress walked away with their orders, Mark added as an afterthought, “Oh. I definitely said ‘fuck’ like thirteen times. Sorry, Annie.” 

“Goddammit, Mark.” 

Well. She supposed it could have been worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Title blatantly stolen from Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Potential trigger warning: Chapter 2 (Mark) contains some discussion of suicide (no worse than what's in the book), though he decides not to.


End file.
